


Promises to keep

by Sys



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-10-02 17:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: This one's going to be difficult to summarize, though basically we'll be focusing on Joan & Sherlock & Arthur. Please prepare for spoilers to the Series Finale. And perhaps read the Notes? :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The problem we're facing here is that I'm currently enthralled not only by Elementary, but also by a short story that jumps back and forth in time a lot. So while I could (and perhaps should) be writing little snippets of our lovely little family in a proper chronological manner, what we'll end up with instead are glimpses at various stages in a back and forth manner. So if you read this, please prepare for a bumpy ride, I cannot recall the last time I tried to write non-sequentially. Oh and as with any of my Elementary stories... prepare for the potential of Joan/Sherlock, I love their friendship, but I do ship them. Thank you. :)
> 
> For the first bit we're settled sometime in winter during the "one year" period.
> 
> \--- Please note: I decided to label this story completed because you already know the last chapter. (Chronologically: Contemplating retirement / Chapter 2.) I very much do want to write more of this, but I feel uncomfortable with unfinished stories and this one is basically a series of oneshots united in its setting in the same headcanon.

He is moving the milk and a vanilla flavored pudding that he knows isn’t his or Watson’s from the fridge when he hears footsteps on the floor. Small, naked feet. _Joan_ Watson can walk quietly, Arthur however... he tries to focus on his purpose. On the gloves covering his hands. The hot water glistening with countless tiny bubbles. Not on an ongoing mission to teach the poor boy to move silently so he can run and find a safe spot in case all locks and traps fail and someone invades their sanctuary. 

“You’re up early,” he comments without turning around.

“May I have some milk, please?”

Watson, Rose or Nursery school. One of the three clearly focuses on politeness a little too much. 

“I could make you tea or hot chocolate. It is quite cold.” He turns and glances pointedly at Arthur’s feet, pretending to only now notice that he isn’t wearing socks yet. In winter. Watson might kill him if they’re found out. He closes the fridge temporarily because cleaning it cannot surpass Clyde’s need for a steady temperature enough to leave it open beyond the minutes needed for the actual cleaning process. Not if he needs to make breakfast _first_.

Arthur’s face brightens considerably. “Thank you.” 

“Which one?” 

Good cheer turns to bewilderment. The parenting forum he trolled two nights ago did have a thread on not offering young children too many choices. But can two really be too many?

He gestures to the tea leaves. “Would you rather have tea?” He gestures to the hot chocolate box. “Or hot chocolate?” 

“Milk, please.”

Right. 

“Warm or cold?”

“Milk?” Arthur repeats, the little frown returning. 

He fills a cup with milk and hands it to Arthur, who screws up his face further but sits down and carefully sets the cup on the table. 

“What’s wrong?”

“This is not my cup.”

“No.” In fact he bought that one for Watson’s birthday five years ago. _Promises to keep_ indeed. “Would you rather have one of your own cups?” Watson’s never been fussy about things like that. Maybe about bras. But anything else...?

“Mommy says I cannot have this.” Arthur pauses, briefly and then smiles just a little. “And Rose cannot have it.” Apparently sharing that fate makes it easier to bear.

He almost points out that that doesn’t sound like Watson at all, but after three years and with everything that’s happened... “Okay, I’ll get you a new cup and then we’ll put your milk into that one and I’ll wash this one and dry it and put it back very carefully. Does that sound like a plan?”

Clearly it does as Arthur’s face tells him all he needs to know before he opens his mouth. 

When he has finally got Arthur a fresh mug and some sliced fruit and scrambled eggs and placed the washed and dried cup back into the cupboard, it’s almost time to start preparing Watson’s breakfast. And he hasn’t even started on the fridge yet. Fridge first though. Watson wouldn’t appreciate him forgetting about his duties as a roommate when she probably won’t be willing to eat again anyway. Not that it will stop him from trying.

“Can you help me with stocking the fridge?” 

“Yes?” 

Turning he realizes that the problem might be a matter of communication.

“When I’m done with cleaning the fridge,” he gestures to the fridge “can you help me put everything...” he gestures to the items surrounding Arthur’s mug and plate on the table and the counter space closest to the fridge “...back in?” 

A much more enthusiastic nod confirms his theory.

With the fridge cleaned and filled and a smiley face consisting of strawberry hair, blueberry eyes, a banana nose and melon slices for a mouth arranged, he picks a plain yoghurt because she is unlikely to want eggs. Or toast. Or cereal. Or anything, really. But he puts on his best (albeit not entirely believable) smile and they make just one more stop to put socks on Arthur’s feet before heading to Watson’s room. 

Only to find it empty.

”Bees.” Arthur suggests confidently. “Mommy likes bees.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mildly melancholy as it's set well into the later years of their lives. (I'd put them into their mid eighties by this point.) Oh and yes, they needed a second child, partly because I like my favorite ladies to have daughters, but also because I'm not sure it's a good idea for two people who grew up having a sibling to raise an only child. (This time the quoted poetry is Brooke, because I thought it wouldn't be fair to only quote Frost.)

“What about the bees?” She studies their hive intently, despite the lack of movement, knowing that if she stops she might turn to him. Might ask other, more pressing questions. Some harmless. Some revealing fears she cannot share, even with Sherlock.

“_And is there honey still, for tea?_” Sherlock quotes, but he’s only half-joking. There is something desolately poignant about a young man longing for things past and fearing the future. A young man with no future to fear, lost to a death so terribly pointless.

“I’m serious.”

“We can add a clause that adds beekeeping duties to the one who gets the Brownstone.”

“But Connie...” 

“Constance.” He corrects futilely when some habits are too hard to break.

“Constance doesn’t like the bees nearly as much as Arthur does and Arthur loves London while Connie loves New York.”

“Arthur would go wherever Archie goes.” His tone is warm... approving. Resting her head against his shoulder is easier than agreeing that lasting friendship and loyalty are commendable. Conveniently it also serves to share warmth against the coolness of the night. It would be easier to just head back downstairs. Maybe share a cup of tea. Or head straight to bed. But before she can bring herself to rise, an arm sneaks around her shoulder, travelling down towards her waist in silent support. 

“Is it time?” She doesn’t need to say the word.

“To pack Clyde and finally move to Sussex?”

It’s turned a joke years... decades... ago, moving to Sussex when it’s time to retire. Only that at the time she’d assumed they were talking about New Jersey. And he’d been talking about England, of course. 

“We could leave Clyde with Marcus and travel. Visit the children.”

Maybe see more of the world before it’s too late. 

He turns his head to press a kiss to her hair. “Let’s find a map. Mark every place we want to see...”

“And finally visit each Sussex and decide which one we like best?”

“Unless you would rather move to New Jersey while I return to England.”

She doesn’t point out that she still wouldn’t start writing him letters. It should be obvious enough from the way she stays in touch with the children. Not that she minds hearing the five page letters he receives from Constance. Or the half page Arthur can be bothered to write occasionally. But anything beyond the obligatory birthday cards can be texted, or communicated by phone or facetime. Or, preferably, in person.

“Who would make my breakfast?” It is worth getting her ringtone changed to _When I’m sixty-four_ if he manages to beat her code. 

But he nods earnestly. “Perhaps we can alternate between the options.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be Sussex.”

“Too cliché? Moving to the seaside? Maybe get a new hive or two....”

“We could try York.”

“I am surprised you enjoyed those ghost trails...”

“Arthur and Connie loved them. _Despite_ the dubious commentary on the inaccuracies of the tales.”

“You were thinking the same thing.”

“And I chose to ignore my misgivings so...”

“Two decades. Six years. Five months. Two days. And you still won’t forget about that?”

“It was a memorable day.”

“Mmm. Constance was sick all over your new suit and tie.”

She rises and moves to leave the roof, but allows him to catch up. It is not the friendly ribbing that drives her, but the odd loss she feels, remembering how she held her little girl. Watched her heave helplessly, again and again when it was finally over. Gratefully accepted the glass of water Arthur brought while Sherlock was busy starting a bath and finding them fresh sets of clothing.

It’s better with the lights on. Back inside the warmth of the kitchen. With the kettle promising tea in just a few minutes. And Sherlock checking the fridge to throw something together for the night. 

“Why don’t we have honeyed toast?”

Another slight sting, but an easier one. The honeyed toast phase was long enough to not be tied to any specific memories. 

“We haven’t had toast in a decade.”

Probably longer.

“Do you think we could still manage the Crêpes recipe Connie was supposed to translate?”

“I’m confident we will.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about thirteen years post canon for this.

“But Mom, _everyone_ is going!” 

Sometimes he wonders if Connie hasn’t paid _any_ attention in her twelve years of living with them. The _everyone_ argument didn’t work on Watson when Arthur first tried it at three and it has never worked since. Trying it when one look at Watson’s face should tell her that it’s a terrible time to ask any favors... well it isn’t as though that’s always stopped him in the past.

“I said no,” Watson repeats in the fearsomely quiet tone she uses when she’s controlling her temper in order not to yell at the kids. Thankfully even a sulking Connie can place _that_, so instead of trying to argue further she stalks from the room. Stomps upstairs. And slams the bathroom door for good measure.

“At least she’s not ruining the crockery,” he quips and it returns a very wry smile to Watson’s face. “Tea?” 

“You have a case you want me to look at, don’t you?”

“It’ll keep.”

She all but raises a brow at him. “Tea would be good, but I need to have a talk with Arthur.”

He’s tempted to send Arthur a text to warn him to shut his game off _before_ his mother catches him at it. Thursday is neither the weekend nor a holiday, and with homework, studying and the various after hours activities required of the average teenager (or at least of Watson’s teenaged children, he hasn’t bothered to look up statistics on how many hours other teens have to spend on playing sports and instruments, studying languages and practicing various forms of self-defense), gaming is off limits during school days. 

But getting involved would only serve to remind Arthur of the last time he pointed out that gaming’s a waste of time that will only kill off brain cells... so he awaits the inevitable argument from Arthur’s room that begins just as Connie stomps back downstairs, clearly eager to withdraw to her own room.

“Connie?”

“What?”

“You realize that your mother’s worried about you, don’t you?”

“I’m _fourteen_!” 

“And we had a case...”

“You always had a case.” Constance brings her arms up to fold them protectively around herself. “You always know of someone who got horribly murdered or kidnapped or... if Mom’s so worried she could come with me. Jodie’s mom does. And Gracia’s. And Steph’s dad. But Mom’s always busy and I’m never allowed anything.”

Pointing out the inaccuracy of that statement would be futile. Nurture’s landed Connie with every bit of Watson’s obstinacy, alongside many of her virtues. 

“Have you told her that the trip is supervised by several...”

“What does it matter? She never listens to me.”

Watson to a T. He _almost_ scoffs, but instead waits for the “Mommy’s so mean!” rant to end to avoid the “you always take her side!” accusation that would follow any contradictions. The downside of resolving any disagreements they have out of earshot of the children has given them a very inaccurate impression of Watson’s and his supposed like-mindedness about everything. 

“Do you want to go?” 

“Of course.”

“You were supposed to translate a recipe for French, weren’t you?”

“So?”

“There is no requirement to wait for Mother’s Day or Mom’s birthday to be nice to her. You can bring her little presents and prepare food for her on every day of the year.”

Connie studies him with a worrying degree of understanding. “Like you do?”

He doesn’t point out that more often than not he doesn’t actually have any ulterior motive for being nice to Watson. Instead he studies Connie until she stops studying him. “I’m merely suggesting that trying out the Crêpes recipe and letting everyone share in the result might be a good starting point. You also might want to mention that you would be happy if she came along...”

“She’ll just say no.”

“Do you remember how sure you were that your Mom would _never_ allow you to drop Mandarin when it was rescheduled and overlapped with Creative Writing?”

“No.”

“When you finally told her, she simply allowed you to pick the activity you preferred. _After_ you spent a week refusing to speak to her because you were sure you knew what she’d say.”

“She already said no.” 

“You didn’t offer her all the facts.” He smiles weakly, wondering why on earth someone as bright as Connie hasn’t realized that pointing out that several parents will accompany the camping trip would easily beat _but everyone goes_. “You didn’t even offer her a bribe. I suggest you start cooking while I make her some tea, she’s already stopped lecturing your brother on his unfortunate fondness for massacring his brain cells.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Arthur's tenth birthday.

“We got everything on the list!” Connie calls and she forces a smile on her face as she meets them in the kitchen to help put away the groceries. “Honey, your uncle arrived early, why don’t you go say hi? He and Arthur are in the media room.”

“Uncle Oren’s here?” 

Watching her daughter run off, she ignores the knowing stare that’s focused on her in favor of washing fruit and vegetables that they will need for Arthur’s birthday dinner.

“You are displeased.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“I’d like to know why.”

She scrubs a little too hard on one of the zucchinis, revealing paler flesh beneath deep green skin. Not that it matters once it’s simmering with its brethren, but the carelessness of the motion bothers her. Losing control of her temper around Oren, let alone the kids is unthinkable. And it’s too late to take back that phone call last Wednesday.

Fingers close around her wrist, seconds after she picks up a knife. 

“He bought the console Arthur wanted for his birthday.” An observation, of course. Not a question.

“Let go.”

“Your brother bought your son a console you deliberately chose not to buy because every review we checked had the word ‘addictive’ in it and you think I want you handling a knife?” He pauses before leaning in to whisper, “ I like your fingers the way they are. Intact.”

“I’m a surgeon. Do you _really_ think I would cut off my finger?”

“I was trying to provide you with an opportunity to get your anger out of your system. You have stowed it up since you would never yell at your brother, let alone your son. So yell, if it helps. They’re busy playing a game as you can hear from the screams of dying monsters, they will not hear you.”

“What was he thinking? He asks a kid about the birthday gift he wants and then he doesn’t check back to ask if that’s okay? He’s the hero. I’m going to be the demon mom from hell who’ll put a stop to excessive gaming for the next few years.”

“True.” Sherlock nods, pulling his mouth into a pained grimace. “But have you thought that maybe Oren is trying to find a way to bond with your children over something he and you enjoyed when you were kids?”

“He’ll have fun with them once every few weeks when he’s got time to see them. I will...”

“You will manage. You always do.” Sherlock’s fingers gently steal the knife from her hands to take over slicing. “And if you ever want me to talk to your children about how much dull, boring, grinding work it is to stay on top of your addiction, let me know.”

“I could handle that knife.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to say... I’m here. If you need me, you don’t have to do it alone?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obvious, of course, but Arthur's 17, going on 18, for this. :)

He’s surprised at the vehemence of the question. Perhaps even more so than he is at the question itself. The signs are there, perhaps not as blindly obvious to Arthur as they would’ve been to him. But they’ve taught both children the basics of the trade. Observational skills, careful interviewing, self-defense, quick reading, everything except the parts Watson’s considered too illegal for them to learn. It’s taken them a long time to pick up on it. Or perhaps it’s only taken them this long till one of them decided to _ask_? 

“Are you sure you would like an answer to that question?”

It is almost touching that Arthur attempts to read _him_. Thankfully they’ve scripted the approach on how to handle that particular line of questions in detail. Attempt to deflect the question. Check. Attempt to get him to ask his mother. Check. Attempt to give him one last chance to _not_ ask again. Check. One more _Are you sure_ failsafe. And he’ll answer. Honestly.

“You do, don’t you?” 

“And how did you deduce that?”

“If you didn’t you’d have said no. Maybe scolded me for asking.”

Ah. Yes. So truth it is.

“She _is_ my wife, you know.”

Arthur’s gaping at him as they knew whichever child asked first would be. Not that it’d be a good idea to go further into detail as to how that step came to pass. It sounds better if you do NOT reveal the logical reasoning for going back on all his beliefs about marriage. _If anyone... who else?_ might not have been the world’s most romantic proposal, but they both said ‘I do’ at the time.

“You are _married_?!”

“Mm?” He studies Arthur, wondering why it matters when it didn’t change a single thing about their lives. “That is what I just said. Are you feeling quite well?”

“And you’re not my dad? Are you Con’s?”

He needs a moment to comprehend the question. It’s almost time to tell Arthur about his biological parents, about his mother, particularly. But they agreed on 18, provided he does want to know. It’s not _his_ business, revealing that part. To a child who’s celebrated adoption day alongside his birthday for most of his life. They were too young to explain it then. And the topic’s never really come up recently. But how could anyone miss out on celebrating a day with the very word adoption in it?

“I’m not your father. Or Connie’s.” It hurts, saying it. But they’ve agreed that asking the courts to allow an addict to adopt children would be pushing their luck. And if Arthur questions whether his role has been parental in all these years... 

“Do you know my dad?” 

“I know of him.” 

“So Mom’s told _you_ about him.” 

“Have you _asked_ your mother?” Obviously not. Watson would’ve told him the truth about his parents the moment he asked about them. Well the moment he asked at a time he was old enough to understand, anyway. 

“You’re dodging the question.” 

“Yes.” He fails miserably at offering a smile. “You can ask your mother about that.” 

“But...” Suddenly he’s faced with a much smaller boy he remembers holding after a vicious nightmare. “But it might hurt Mommy if..” 

“Your mother loves you. Has since the day she first met you, if you just...” 

“_Met_ me.” How exactly did he pick up anything odd about that wording? Maybe voice cues? Watson’s going to kill him. “What do you mean?” 

He can’t answer that question. Shouldn’t be having this conversation. Why is Watson picking up Constance from fencing when she could be training her in singlestick at home? 

“Sit down. Take a deep breath.” He makes eye contact, holds it as he waits for Arthur to follow the instructions. “In. And out. Slowly. That’s right.” 

It’s ridiculous that it still works the way it did when the poor kid cried in his sleep every night for months. He waits until the breathing rhythm’s calm and steady before he offers him a glass of water. Advises him to drink small sips. It’s quicker than tea, even if it’s hardly as efficient. 

While he puts on the kettle, he texts Watson instructions to come home ASAP. The water’s not boiling yet when his phone rings. 

“Connie wants to pick out new shoes and we were going to get groceries. What’s the emergency?” She expects a new case, he can hear that in her tone. 

“Just come home please, _Jingyi_?” 

“Oh.” She pauses, probably to consider the quickest way home. “Ten minutes, fifteen tops.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Briefly mentions murder, suicide, drug use, violence. --- I’ve distilled four chapters of background into one paragraph, so it’s a very much non-graphic thing. And I think we’ve all made it through watching worse things in canon.  
Constance’s recently turned six for this one.

Judging by the sounds from the parlor they’re still playing Mousetrap when she sets aside her gloves and gives Bob a quick pad on the shoulder. She texts to ask if it’s okay to grab a shower because shouting longer messages is inconvenient and reappearing before she’s ready to be Mommy again just means that Connie will try to cling to her. Get her to play the game with them. Now. 

A “k” back is all she needs to indulge in another 30 minutes of preparing for another talk, later, when the kids are safely tucked away. Shower. Dinner. Bedtime stories. And then... a loud wail sends her downstairs as soon as she’s dressed enough to cover all bruises she doesn’t want to discuss with the kids. Or Sherlock, really, because it’d just send him back to wondering if it _really_ was just an accident. 

“Mom!” 

She prepares for the sight. Prepares to gather Arthur in her arms and comfort him if need be. But it doesn’t really fix the problem. At six you should be better with controlling your temper, but so far every timeout and every time she’s tried hugging or talking it out hasn’t worked. 

“Connie, it is just a game. You don’t scratch or bite or hit people if you lose.”

“She didn’t lose,” Sherlock points out, still holding back their wild child, waiting for her to settle down. “Arthur refused to turn over the die because she didn’t say please.”

Of course. It’s just as futile, trying to get Arthur not to constantly coparent his sister. 

She checks her son for scratches and bruises, but Sherlock’s clearly stopped the attack before anything happened. Really, Connie needs to stop scratching and hitting. But Arthur needs to stop making a fuss over nothing, too. So much for being as relaxed as possible for the talk ahead.

“Honey, give your sister the die. _Please._” She offers Connie a look that reminds her that she expects to hear a _thank you_ next. That part works better when she’s around. Sherlock’s good with the kids, a lot better than he claimed he’d be, but he’s terrible with consequently enforcing the same rules at any given time. 

“Dinner or kids?”

It’s no surprise when he chooses to make dinner after a couple of hours with the kids. But it’s nicer to give him a choice.

After dinner Sherlock gets Arthur ready for bed while she takes Connie. It takes a lot more patience, listening to Connie’s reading efforts than it takes with Arthur’s. And Sherlock can’t manage to read Connie’s favorite fairy tales without commentary. 

“Do you love me?”

The question startles her and the seriousness in Connie’s eyes reminds her far too much of Sherlock’s haunted expressions whenever he feels lost and confused.

“Of course.” She strokes her daughter’s hair, as tears begin to fall. “I love you so much everything inside me hurts when I think something could happen to you. And I love you so much that I could swing you around for days because it makes you laugh. I love it when you tell me stories. And I still love you to pieces when you watch insects in the park for hours when everyone else is ready to go home. I love you loads and loads and loads.” 

There’s a _bad_ clearly audible between stammering and sobs and it breaks her heart a little. 

“You aren’t bad, sweetie. We just need to figure out a way to help you rein in your temper.”

It takes story time. And singing. And cuddling. And showers of kisses till Connie’s finally asleep. Her top’s as wet as Connie’s pillow when she rises to tip toe outside, her steps guided solely by the nightlight glowing softly above a collection of snow globes. 

“Do you love me?” She asks, facing Sherlock and he looks utterly confused for all of a second or two. 

“Yes,” he says before she can explain and it sounds so unexpectedly solemn that she almost forgets how to breathe.

“No, Connie asked me that.” 

“So I take it you are not in the mood to tell me how you knew our victim.”

She promised they’d talk at home and there’s no point postponing it. “He was Arthur’s dad.” 

The words come easier after that. About meeting her former sober client Alicia Jones. About the early days, helping her cope with being a mother. And about Arthur’s clingy phase at around seven-eight months. About the overdose. The last will. About getting every bit of support from Howard in formalizing the adoption because the poor man didn’t know the first thing about raising a child and was grateful to support his wife’s choice.

“So we have two orphans now,” Sherlock says softly when she’s done. “But they’ve got us. And they’ve got each other.”

He doesn’t comment on the drug history in Arthur’s family just as he didn’t comment on adopting the only survivor of the tabloids’ favorite family tragedy. They’ll find the murderer, much like they identified Connie’s estranged half brother as the one who’d brought a gun to a Thanksgiving dinner. Instead she feels an arm slung loosely around her waist as they return to the study to brood over the evidence. 

“You’re at the practice tomorrow?”

Pretending that he doesn’t know her schedules by heart is just silly, so she doesn’t bother answering. What she does do when they reach the study is steal a couple of minutes of pondering time in order to claim a hug she’s needed all day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about a year post canon for this one. :)

He’s assisting Connie’s efforts at putting together New York while Arthur’s puzzling over a map of the United States. It’s another quiet day. He’s overestimated the amount of time they’d spend assisting New York’s most adequate after they announced their availability about a year ago. Being around Watson, their family and their friends has given him a wrong impression of his ability to stay patient and courteous, and Watson herself isn’t the picture of patience she once was. More surprising than the cops’ incompetence and unwillingness to be alerted to it is that he doesn’t miss working with the police. Between paying clients and keeping up with the children’s ever changing interests and development, rebuilding friendships abandoned and keeping an eye on Watson’s recovery process, the occasional case Marcus wants their eyes on is welcome, but not crucial. 

What does bother him is Watson. It is as infuriating as it is simple. For weeks going on months now, she’s preoccupied and he cannot tell what’s wrong. Can just watch as she types message after message into her phone. Listen to snippets of calls that make no sense taken out of context. Watch her leave to keep undisclosed appointments. See her jotting done numbers and frown at them. But they have discussed that, should any true hardship befall them there are five million dollars squirreled away, back when Watson’s health insurance started to consider if all steps necessary for her recovery process really _are_ necessary. So while she insists on something as ridiculous as keeping a household book these days...using money that reclaimed neutrality by helping them solve its rightful owner’s murder wouldn’t bother him much.

“Done!” 

The wailing that follows doesn’t come as a surprise, but there’s no denying that Arthur’s managed to finish 100 pieces in the time it’s taken them to almost complete 48. 

“Good work,” he praises Arthur, before trying to console Connie over their ineffectiveness. Lin had a point, trying to up Connie’s pieces count, but next time one of the 24 pieces Disney Princesses might be a better way to keep her interest alive. She can finish those by herself, though not yet with her eyes covered. But that’s Watson’s insistence that they don’t use blindfolds problem solving on the children to enhance the problem solving process. At least not before they turned eight.

Watson doesn’t ask what happened when she reclaims her crying daughter. Just takes one look at the almost finished puzzle and shushes her effectively by revealing her plan to bake muffins. Arthur stays behind as they leave for the kitchen, helping him pick apart the puzzles and returning them to their boxes.

“She always cries,” he complains, and there’s a weird mixture of impatience and guilt in his voice. It takes astonishing effort not to wonder if Mycroft ever felt like that, but he manages. 

“Do you remember the time you let her score a goal because she was sad that you’re better at playing football?”

“Mhm.”

“Maybe do that again, sometimes?” 

Arthur looks doubtful and he’s probably right. Watson and Connie would both be scandalized at the suggestion that he should go easy on his sister. But if he holds back while teaching Arthur to play chess, Arthur can slow down a little while puzzling.

“Okay,” he finally hears when they’re done with restoring order to the table. “Thanks.”

The kitchen already smells of dough and he can hear a whisk mixing ingredients as they head downstairs. Connie’s still suspiciously clean, so Watson probably started the project without her and just came to collect her when she heard the loser’s lament. They should probably talk to the kids about not being so competitive about everything. But that’s easier said than done when even Watson gets competitive about winning games and finding crucial clues. 

He switches to Mandarin to ask about the occasion, and Watson looks suspiciously guileless. They bake with the children, of course. For birthdays or when they meet friends. After a case solved or for the various festive seasons. But Watson’s more comfortable with cooking than baking, and her starting a batch of muffins by herself without claiming either the kids or his assistance...?

“School’s out for a couple of weeks soon, do you think we should take the kids to see England?”

There’s something decidedly worrying about Watson of all people suggesting a flight that’s not required for a case. Or to move their residence.

“Are Kitty and Archie okay?”

“As far as I know.”

That’s a relief. But it doesn’t explain why she’d endure several hours on a plane with two young children. Claiming and holding eye contact says that there _is_ something to talk about, just as he expected after weeks of secrecy. But they come to an unspoken understanding that it’ll need to wait until later.

“I’ll book the flights if you text me the dates you have in mind.”

Watson detests booking flights, which is ridiculous as he’s seen her book opera, theatre and cinema tickets, make restaurant reservations, wrangle tons of doctor’s appointments, health insurance nuisances, school related nonsense to plan the children’s continued education for years ahead, on top of bills, taxes and interviews. But airlines and Watson are sworn enemies. 

“Thanks.”

They enter safer waters while the kids are around, discussing day tours and packing lists, overnighting arrangements for more interesting cities to visit and how and when to ask Kitty if she’s got time to meet them.

When the kids are in bed, though, he waits, arms crossed.

“Have I ever told you about the plans Carrie and I cooked up in medical school?”

He shakes his head and she doesn’t look surprised.

“I’d half-forgotten myself. But we always said that one day we’d open a practice that’ll treat regular patients to stay afloat, so we can afford to offer free care to those who cannot pay their bills.” She smiles gently, despite his efforts to keep his expression neutral. “It’ll be part time, for me anyway. She’s found new allies for the project over the years, and she knows about the children. _And_ she knows how much I love what we do. But I need to do this, Sherlock.”

She does, that’s written all over her face, her whole body radiates how much she means it. And it would be futile, explaining that it is not their work that he’s concerned for. Not even the children. If she knew how much he wished she wouldn’t demand more of herself than anyone around her... how much he’d rather she spent less time working than more... she’d only get angry at his attempts to protect her. They’ve been there, plenty of times. And fighting exhausts her.

He forces a crooked smile. “Well, you _are_ a good doctor.” The best. But a terrible patient, since the day the official treatment’s done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's twelve for this. :)

It’s inconvenient, talking to a screen about their plans, but she’s only got herself to blame for the tininess of the display. Resizing Sherlock’s useful to research while he’s digesting that it’s time for the next step. But it takes away even more of his expression and body language than talking via screen does by default. If he’d made it back from Sweden as planned... well nobody could guess that a damned Volcano would break out and stop air traffic for days.

“We agreed they could choose pets if they pass each test.”

“I am well aware.”

That’s hardly surprising. It’s been a constant battle for over a year now, trying to convince the kids that a turtle and countless bees are excellent pets and they can share those. _Those are your pets_. Well at least the challenges they overcame say that they mean it, so maybe it’ll take six months till they’ll lose interest. Maybe more.

“I’m not looking after a cat or dog when they’ve lost their interest.”

“Despite of the dog you had growing up that you...”

“It’s hardly impressive, I told you about him.” Not that his efforts are impressive 9/10 if you’ve learned how to observe and deduce and honed the skill for over a decade.

“Did you?”

The surprise sounds almost genuine, but they’ve looked at the old picture books with Mom a couple of times when she still wanted to be reminded. And they’ve looked at them with both kids. Countless times. There’s no way he didn’t spot Grover even if she didn’t tell him specifically. 

“Can you see any of us taking a dog for a walk five times a day?” 

She almost misses the headshake, reading through another list of pets suitable for ages ten and up. Definitely no cat, either. Let alone a parrot. Those cocks were sweet enough, but more than a week of anything capable of crowing or croaking...

“I had sea monkeys.”

“What?”

“Before boarding school. My mother believed that every child should have a pet. My father didn’t believe I could handle anything remotely challenging. I would have settled for taming a spider, but they were chased from the house before I could befriend one. Father had a very diligent staff.” The video’s too tiny to make out his expression and he’s excellent at keeping his tone neutral. “My mother was a great fan of one of your countrymen’s books. I believe Charlotte’s web is the first book she ever read to me.”

Sometimes Sherlock’s attempts to be kind only make sense five years later.

“You could have told me that.”

“They probably were too young at the time.”

“We should probably wait till they have picked their pets before reading it to them or we’ll end up with a piglet and a spider.”

“Have you checked the pet shelter websites yet?”

“I thought narrowing down the animals we’ll permit them to choose from would be a better first step.” 

For once she can actually see him pull a face. As if seeing some cute half-blind eight year old Husky on a shelter website would turn a dog into a suitable animal for them. 

“Rodents, amphibians, reptiles, birds that do not surpass the size of a budgie or zebra finch.”

“Just mail me a proper list of the animals you’re okay with and we’ll start checking shelters? I doubt we’ll pick any out before you’re home.”

“If you do, keep in mind that they’re unlikely to be welcome in a hall.”

“It’s years till either of them is off to college.”

“Six, for Arthur.” 

He’s right, of course, rationally. But the reminder that her little boy will only be around for a few more years and then leave to make a life of his own... 

“I promised them popcorn for their movie night. You should get some sleep.”

“You’ll have my list as soon as it’s done.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

He offers her a crooked smile before his icon vanishes, leaving her to ten open tabs on appropriate child ages, pet maintenance and a couple of forums. But all that can wait until she’s got Sherlock’s list. He’ll probably dig into it in detail for the next couple of hours at least. And there are two not-yet-grown-up children she can still watch movies with for now. 

With the maize popping , there’s time to empty a bag of chips into a bowl, gather glasses and a couple of bottle onto her tray. Add a couple of chocolates. And a bag of winegums. But by the time she’s also added trail mix and some fresh fruit to the assortment though, it’s clear that carrying everything by herself is going to be a hassle. 

/Kitchen./ She types into her phone because it’s more reliable than shouting.

It’s an easy enough request to follow and after Connie’s helped her with the shopping, it’s Arthur’s turn to assist her now. Five full minutes pass till she can hear him on the stairs. Probably needed to wait for some particularly thrilling scene to be over first... another door upstairs tells her Connie’s bright enough to make use of the time, too.

“Sorry, mom, but Edmund just...”

“You’re here now.”

The hug surprises him, but he readily curls into her arms. Lingers there for a few moments. And then gently untangles himself the way he usually does these days. He’s fonder of hugs than Sherlock is. But he’s not a huge fan either. 

“Can you carry the tray? I’ll bring the chips and popcorn when I join you.”

He nods, glances at the tray. And beams at her. “You’re the best, mom.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one mentions cancer (alongside other sicknesses and injuries). I'm sorry, but I promise it's not exactly graphic.  
We're about four months post canon here.

Arthur’s got Chris in his carry on, muttering what seems to be a rather creative retelling of an insipid Fireman Sam episode that now features dragons, fairies and a promising amount of skepticism concerning Norman Price and his horrible behavior. It’s probably a good thing that Arthur’s not just exposed to his peers’ taste in media, but to a healthy dose of Watson’s, alongside suggestions from her family, Emily, Kitty, Marcus and even Captain Gregson.

“We need one more egg, please.” 

“Okay.”

Arthur likes adding eggs to the dough and much to Watson’s delight he’s now capable of adding about 90% of them without spilling anything on his clothes. Or the table. Sometimes it still hits his apron. But this time his clothes, Chris, the carry on and his apron are spotless. 

“Good, do you want to mix the dough?”

“Yes!”

That one’s riskier. But he _loves_ it. And they still got almost an hour till Watson is due back from her mission. Ample time to get redressed if necessary. Well Arthur, anyway. He’s already in the exact clothes he plans to wear, as he’s carefully chosen them to the occasion. Casual chic. Something you could wear to a middle class garden party to say that you put no effort whatsoever into getting dressed after deliberating upon the topic for twenty minutes. 

The adoption is through, it is unlikely that Ms. Henderson is going to take Connie away from them if he fails to radiate excellent supportive roommate vibes. But he likes Connie and Watson wants this. So a couple of hours of showing their latest version of the house and sharing some waffles and freshly cut fruit and allowing the children to meet properly... perhaps the homemade ice cream is a little over the top. But ample research into Ms. Henderson’s tastes says that it is exactly what she likes. And as Watson and the kids are unlikely to have any objections. (Well Watson and Arthur won’t. No one could offer them a clear list on Connie’s preferences...) 

“Are you _sure_ Chris isn’t sleepy yet?”

“No. He wants to meet his Auntie.”

Of course.

When the dough is finished, he covers it and prepares the waffles iron. It won’t do to start baking yet, they need to be fresh. But slicing and boxing the fruit takes another few minutes off the time he’ll spend with Arthur getting giddier and giddier. Maybe a couple of chapters of Winnie the Pooh will help. Trust Rose to have a doctor’s appointment right when Watson’s got hers to meet with Ms. Henderson and bring home Constance.

“Will my sister love me?”

“Probably.” He should say yes. Watson would’ve just said yes, radiating confidence. Watson likes her siblings despite the perhaps three things she’s got in common with either of them. 

“I’ll love her lots and lots.”

That’s Watson confidence, right there. Or maybe it’s all those “Benny gets a little baby sister” sort of books about little boys or girls or occasionally little frogs or badgers who get a little sibling, are skeptical and unhappy initially and then _of course_ start to love the baby because it’s so very cute and they become best friends forever and there is no other possible outcome.

“Mhm.”

“She can help me with Chris.”

Watson through and through.

“We’ll have to see how they get along. How’s his fever now?”

“Much better, thanks. Another good night’s sleep and he should be fine.”

“Ah. Good.” Miraculous recoveries are by no means a rarity. Chris has been sick with almost every illness and suffered any injury that Arthur’s picked up on and made speedy recoveries from most, under constant loving care from his father. Cancer was a very tough case lasting for full weeks at a time, and recurring. And there was that horrible concussion he had after falling off Arthur’s rocking horse at full speed... that required almost five whole days of complete bed rest. 

They’d bought the carry on after that. Well they’d bought the carry on the day Watson finally received her clean bill of health. But Arthur had immediately informed Chris that from now on they’d use the carry on whenever they had somewhere to ride. Mostly nursery school and the hospital, of course. With occasional trips to the police station. 

Like father, like son. Or perhaps like grandson like grandmother, but Watson’s not yet entirely convinced that she’s the doll’s grandmother. It’s a work in progress.

“Can we watch Paw Patrol, please?”

“I live here, remember?”

“One episode on Saturday. One episode on Sunday.”

“I can read you a story. Or you can draw Mommy a picture.”

“Mommy’s sick?!”

“No! No, Mommy’s not sick again, I promise. You can draw Mommy pictures when she’s not sick.”

“Does it hurt to have the baby?”

“You do remember that Connie is two years old?”

“Yes.”

“Mommy is not actually going to have a baby because Connie’s mother already had her two years ago.”

“Okay. So will it hurt Mommy to...”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“So why does she have to go to the hospital?”

“She’s...” It shouldn’t hurt that Arthur’s first thought when they’re left alone is that Mommy’s back at the hospital now that she’s finally out of danger. “She isn’t at the hospital. She is meeting Ms. Henderson and Connie and they are going to come here after your Mommy signed a few more papers. They’re probably already on the way here now.”

They could’ve handled the whole thing here, but Watson wanted a chance to let Connie meet her first after another week of not seeing her at all due to some stupid legal technicality.

“Can I watch an episode of Fireman Sam, please?”

“I still live here, Arthur. You’re welcome to try that on your other aunts and uncles, but I _know_ how Watson feels about this.”

“But please? Today’s a special day.”

He locates his phone. _Cn A w PP?_

It takes all of ten seconds. _**1** E._

Watson’s very efficient when she wants to be.

“Mommy says _one_ episode of Paw Patrol.”

They manage to make it through, though he’s mostly interested in the way Arthur carefully covers Chris’s ears when things look even remotely troublesome, casting concerned glances at the doll. 

“Are you even sure you like that show?”

“All the boys do.”

It was worth a try. Although talking him out of Fireman Sam for good would be even more of an achievement. But Watson says another year and she’ll switch him to Arthur and Sesame Street, peers be damned, and _perhaps_ that’s going to be easier.

They end up with coloring another page in the stupid Paw Patrol book Arthur got for his birthday from Jeffrey Parker. Thankfully Watson managed to take the resulting play date to Bubby’s and top it off with a trip to the Whitney. Or the other way round. 

“Marshall and Rocky.” Arthur identifies and stars coloring the Dalmatian’s spots in colors that have very little to do with reality. “Do you think Chris can have a waffle later? I think he’d like one.”

“We’ll have to ask Mommy. You know she’s the doctor in the family.”

“Okay.” Chris’s head is petted. “We’ll have to ask Mommy. Daddy doesn’t know either.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's eighteen for this one. And a bit dramatic, I fear. (Particularly as the chapter I actually wrote doesn't actually mention his reasons.)  
I'd like to say thanks to all the lovely people leaving comments and kudos. I really do appreciate your interest. Thank you. :)

“... noticed anything? Do you know when he...” 

“Watson!” 

Connie flees the study and she turns to Sherlock but he’s raised both hands, defensively, mirroring her misery. “We will find him. I promise. But it’s not Con’s fault. I’ve contacted everyone I can think of. But he’s an adult. He’s got money. And we’ve taught him how to survive.”

“Did you notice?” 

“He’s been preoccupied. But I thought it was just finishing school and worrying about his college applications.”

“What is it with you?” 

“Me?”

“Men. Leaving five line notes and...”

“That was...” He closes his mouth. Thankfully. There’s no good way to continue that sentence. Not right now. “I’ve called Marcus, your stepdad, your siblings, Platypus... what’s his proper name? Timothy? Ezra says they haven’t talked in a couple of weeks. I only got Cathy’s dad, she and her mom are out of town on some techdetox trip. Mark says he mentioned that he has to think, but not what about. Jen promised she’ll coordinate their friends and call if anyone hears anything. Anyone else you can think of?”

“_Everyone_?”

“You read his note.”

“I don’t care about the note.”

“He’s eighteen and made the choice to leave. He’s not an abducted six year old.”

“I just need to know he’s okay.”

“We saw him this morning. He’s got money. He’s got his passport. He packed a proper bag. Toothbrush and everything. If he needs a couple of days...”

“Or years.”

“He’ll be in touch. He’ll probably call just to tell you goodnight.”

“You don’t _know_ that.”

“No. But he loves you...”

“Because people who love you never cut you out of---.”

“...and he’s called every night he’s been away from home just to let you know he’s okay and hear you say goodnight.”

She can’t help smiling at that. First time he stayed at Rose’s over night she actually had to sing him to sleep via facetime. Connie switched from needing to say goodnight via phone call or facetime to texting a heart or smiley as soon as she had her own phone. But Arthur...

“... switched off sibeep,” Connie whispers and she hasn’t even heard her come back in. “He _never_ switches off sibeep.”

Sibeep. She’s almost forgotten about those. Stupid gadgets they bought them at a spy shop that catered excellently to the kids’ need to play detective in their pre-teens despite Sherlock’s lamentations about the way places like that attract more imbecile amateurs to the trade. Reminding him that the media presents amateur sleuths in almost every cop show merely changed the direction of his rant. But she’d refrained from pointing out the irony of allowing their kids to play detective whilst proclaiming that it’s a fine art that requires _proper_ training.

“Maybe he’s out of range,” Sherlock suggests and Connie’s pale face brightens up a little at the thought. 

“His phone’s off, too, though.” Connie says, as if they hadn’t tried that already. “And he’s not answering on any of his accounts. I signed in to _Brightest Star_, too, but none of our friends there have seen him either.”

“He’s unlikely to huddle up somewhere to play a game.”

“You can log in from tablet, Mom. It’s how you distract yourself travelling.”

“What happened to texting? Or talking to the people you’re with?” 

Connie sighs, glances at Sherlock and shrugs. “Multitasking’s the key. He’s going to be okay, right Mom? He’ll just figure out this stuff and then he’ll come back?” 

“I hope so.” That’s not good enough, Connie’s face tells her plainly. But it’s the best version of “I don’t know” she can offer. She spreads her arms and feels the offer appreciated as Connie curls into them. It tears families apart, having to cope with the loss of a child. Even ones who left voluntarily... she tightens her arms around Connie and watches Sherlock who’s studying the note as if rereading it yet again might offer him any clues about Arthur’s whereabouts. 

“We should eat,” She declares, turning to Sherlock. “You skipped breakfast and I haven’t seen you eat since.” 

When he looks at her she glances at the teen still curled into her arms. Getting Connie to believe that they need normality for Sherlock’s sake and Sherlock to believe that they need it for Connie’s might just work. And it’s better than him trying to find clues on a note they’ve both read a hundred times.

“I’ll fix something. Why don’t you pick a movie?”

He doesn’t look sorry to miss half of whatever they’ll pick. But it’s a good idea. Ice cream, too, but they can have that later. She stirs Connie towards the set that’s appeared in the library a while ago. Turns it to face the couch. And settles beside her daughter, wondering just what kind of movie you pick for _that_ situation.

“Would you like to pick one?”

“Sword in the Stone?”

Arthur’s favorite movie ages four to ten. Possibly twelve. 

“By all means.”

The mere fact that the film is _still_ marked as favorite is telling. 

When Arthur gets lost in the woods and chased by the wolf she starts playing with Connie’s hair to distract herself. It’s relaxing, putting the tiny braids into her hair that she loved at thirteen and happily tolerates now. Not that there’s much of a point when the nearest source for ties is a flight of stairs away. But it’s something to do.

When Merlin arrives at the Castle of Arthur’s foster father, Sherlock reappears, bearing bowled pasta. It’s a step up from cups, at least. And the sauce isn’t bad. He’s got a knack for herbs and spices if he puts effort into it. Runs in... she drops that thought. Considers asking Connie to scoot further to the right so Sherlock can leave behind the armrest he’s claimed. But nobody’s forcing him. He could’ve easily claimed the other side of the couch if he’d wanted to.

Sherlock loves the 'turned into animals to attain a new perspective' scenes. But at least he’s stopped bringing Clyde to watch. Kids loved it, though. Particularly around the time he started telling them that Clyde might just be a mage’s apprentice who never got turned back into a little boy. They’d researched potential disenchantment spells for days... before giving up and baking him more goodies instead.

Merlin and Arthur are befriending (or fleeing) squirrels when her phone rings and she abandons her spot on the couch for the relative quiet of the study. 

“Kitty?”

“You’ve gotta stop sending me your soaking sobbing messes, Watson.”

“He’s in _London_?!”

“Arrived an hour ago. Took me this long to learn that your household’s switched phones again.”

“Everyone.” Should explain everything. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“Takes after Sherlock. Can’t stop talking ‘bout you. Archie’s got him to try his new favorite chocolate-mint ice cream covered in caramel sauce. But he’s still a miserable mess. Thinks you’ll never talk to him again because he screwed up once. Almost cute.”

“Get him on the phone please?”

“Just don’t be too harsh on him, Watson. I’m pretty sure he’s already sorry enough.”

“Kitty, _please_?”

She listens as Kitty leaves behind the titled kitchen to enter the wood-covered hallway when she realizes that Sherlock and Connie have joined her. “He’s with Kitty. Seems he’s shaken but okay.”

“I should have...” Sherlock starts but she shakes her head. 

“Mommy?”

She almost drops the phone when she hears his voice. “Honey, never do that again, okay?”

“I promise. That was really stupid. I’m so, so sorry... I...”

“It’s okay. This time.” She glances at Sherlock. “Being dramatic runs in the family. Next time just tell us if you want to see Kitty and Archie. Just don’t make us wonder if you’re lying in a ditch somewhere and put on your phone. Oh and text your friends, they’ll be worried, too.”

“I will.”

She sees Connie’s look and nods. “Connie wants to talk to you. Just stay there as long as you need, okay? But stay in touch, don’t just drop off the face of the world.”

“Yes.”

Connie takes the phone when she offers it and wanders away back to the library to announce the movie they’re watching and randomly recap the plot they could probably both quote by heart. 

She’s surprised at the arms folding around her, but leans into the embrace. 

“Tortoises are easier.”

“They can’t buy plane tickets for one.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set two years post canon. :)

She knows. He’s sure of that, watching her as she rushes back and forth to prepare the kids’ lunch boxes. They’ll have to talk about it later, though he can barely contain the nervous excitement begging him to roll on his feet, up and down from the tips to the heels. The kids would love it, most likely. But Watson... is an entirely different matter. 

“What do you want on your toast?”

“Honey.” 

It’s the same, every day. Has been for weeks. Months. A year? But he asks anyway. Every day. In case she wants to change her mind. Eat something that differs from Arthur’s lead. They’ll get cheese sandwiches, their veggies and an apple as lunch today, judging by Watson’s preparations. And they’ll eat that, most likely. But for breakfast it’s honeyed toast, a banana, and nothing beside that but a glass of juice or a cup of tea.

“Do you want to make it yourself?”

Connie _can_ do that, theoretically, but she’ll spread both butter and honey unevenly only to stare balefully at Arthur’s artfully prepared toast. He’s picked up on slicing the banana and making his own smiley faces now. No assistance required.

“Yes.”

He toasts a second helping and sits down with his own tea. Watson’s not going to appreciate any help, least of all today. So he busies himself trying to judge how rueful he might need to look, later. When the kids are at school and nursery school. He can guess several potential reactions. But he’s been wrong about her reaction to his learning about his relapse. So there’s no telling if he can guess right this time. Even knowing Watson as well as he does she’s never deducible. That’s one of the reasons he likes her.

“Can we go to the park?”

Sometimes he wonders if Connie grasps the concept of nursery school’s attendance requirements, but he stays out of that conversation. It’s up to Watson, explaining that one. He carries the next set of toasts to the kitchen table and produces more banana slices for the kids to place. Closes his eyes, when he’d prefer to block his ears against the wailing at the unfairness of the world. Connie’s argumentation, as far as he can hear between sobs, is that if Rose isn’t around to take them, they shouldn’t have to go.

“You can ride on my back.”

That’s a sure way to shut up any wails. It’s also a sure way to make Watson heave a sigh, and later give him a talk about spoiling the kids when they’re alone. You’re not supposed to reward bad behavior. And yet... seeing Connie smile again? Seeing the relief on Arthur’s face because he won’t be stuck with another wailing induced headache? It’s worth any potential admonishment.

They see Arthur off to school before they deliver Connie at nursery school. And Watson doesn’t comment on the piggyback ride. _Or_ the other matter. Instead she takes the lead as they walk to the park without the kids. 

It’s a quiet day. Most people are at work, but they’re between cases and there’s nothing to do. The park’s significant. They’ve spent a lot of time here, in that terrible year of hope and fear. Both with Arthur and without him. It’s habit, mostly, that has him take her hand. Happened once, then. And somehow it happened again after that. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she says as they walk to the pond and sit by the water. 

He feels too much energy rushing through him, but he contains it, barely. And doesn’t jump off the bench. Doesn’t bounce. Or roll his feet. Doesn’t avoid her eyes, either, as he did when he told her about his real reason for breaking off contact. About the shameful moment when he realized that he’d lost control over his addiction. That cool, gentle hand on his face as she’d turned him and reminded him that she knows, better than most, that the risk is always there. That it’ll always be there.

“You started it.”

She glances at him. 

“No, Sherlock. I _read_ it.”

“When?”

It’s only been out for six days and they’ve been busy for most of that time.

“You do realize that I read in bed at night?”

He studies her, surprised. “You wrapped it into another book’s cover.”

“Mhm. I didn’t know you were that easy to fool.”

Points to her for cunningness. Points off him for failing to notice.

“I would’ve expected you to slam it on the table the moment you found out. Well maybe not right away. But once the kids are out of earshot...”

Her look tells him that she considered and discarded that possibility. 

“It wasn’t necessary to declare your love that openly.”

“Credit where it’s due, Watson. Nothing more.”

“Euglassa Watsonia. Or: Why is a species of bees named after my partner?”

“I am told that readers enjoy the appeal of a mystery as much as a good detective does, and I always wanted to write a book about bees.”

“Your first draft was quite different from this one.”

“So was yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you know, I have not read your first draft. It was destroyed as was your intention. But I _have_ read the second book. It is not possible that your first attempt resembled it much. It was revenge, certainly. You admitted as much. But it was a tribute, too. One that showed a genuine affection you could never have harbored when you formulated your first attempt.”

She squeezes his hand. “I missed you.”

“Never as much as...”

It’s an accident. He’s sure of that. It’s Watson, after all. So there is no possible way that he brought her hand to his lips on purpose. Or that he searched her eyes to promise foolish things he could never say aloud. Promising everything that’s his to give to Watson is turning into a very bad habit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the length of this one. This was initially intended to be a standalone story to cheer up our brilliant NairobiWonders a little. But then it became clearer and clearer that it's another story that's clearly set in Promises to Keep canon and as it fits, rating wise... - This is set well post canon, quite possibly *post* Chapter 2, despite my initial decision to read that as the last chapter. But then, the last two chapters had them leave the Brownstone, too. *And* we have an even chapter with Sherlock as focalizer now. Huh. So I guess it shows how well I keep to my own rules.
> 
> I hope this meets your taste. Please feel better soon. <3

It’s still disorientating, waking to the smell of fresh coffee and croissants. Watson seems to need less sleep with every day that passes and in recent weeks she’s shaped the hours gained into a specific routine. A jog, a shower, buying breakfast or preparing it. If it didn’t rob him of the opportunity to wake _her_, to make _her_ breakfast, he might enjoy it a little. But to manage his old traditions these days he needs to rise between half past three and four in the morning, which is doable, in theory. Just that in the past week it’d mean more hours of deplorable idleness.

The current cottage doesn’t allow for much privacy. They’ll definitely need a bigger place if they do move permanently. But as a trial it’s manageable living at closer quarters than usual. At least two more rooms beside the bathroom and main room would be nice, though. 

“Rise and shine.” She doesn’t even sound sarcastic, at least not particularly so. 

There is something deeply confusing about Joan Watson giving him a true, genuine smile. In a way it is everything he’s ever wanted, seeing her happy. Making her happy. But Watson looking happy without a new lead found or a new challenge conquered? Without the kids doing something cute? Without a call or letter from one of the children telling them about their week? Just happy to be with _him_? Years of occasional smiles and short cheerful grins still haven’t prepared him for that sight. Not when it’s a true Watson smile, not just a hint of it.

With only a little effort he tilts the corners of his mouth upwards ever so slightly as he rises. Offering a real smile on command doesn’t work, not even for Watson. He doesn’t want it to anymore than she would. Watson deserves real emotions, not faked ones. 

“Are you finally going to tell me why we need these pictures?” Trying to recreate holiday shots without the children around is... peculiar.

“We’re still people.”

He blinks and it takes him a moment. And he almost says _of course you are_, but bites his tongue in time. They are both still people, with the children out of the nest and coming home only sporadically. They’re both still people, even while they’re on vacation and not solving a case to exercise their brains, hone their skills, and make the world a little better. They’d both still be people even if they retired permanently. Watson is so very much a person that it escapes him, sometimes, that she might not see that. Might not know that every time he looks at her he sees someone amazing.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, because telling her that she is the most important person in the world would sound prompted when it’s heartfelt. “Breakfast before we collect stones and seashells?” 

Yesterday’s sandcastle competition was definitely more disconcerting. But the pictures taken did fit in with the ones they took twenty-five years ago on the first seaside vacation they went on at the children’s request. Life was different then, playing in the sand, swimming, and eating food roasted over a campfire. Watson hasn’t mentioned campfires yet, and he’s not keen on repeating that experience. Fires are much easier contained inside a fireplace. But he has bought and packed new swimming trunks as instructed, so it’s likely that they’ll get fairly close to the original experience.

Well as close as you can get, without the children.

They make short work of the breakfast prepared, including freshly made jam that the shop around the corner sells at the behest of the woman whose farmhouse they stayed at with two small children in tow. Sleeping in the straw is entirely overrated, but small French seaside towns are just a little more quaint than English ones. Not that he’d say that aloud. It’d be like admitting that speaking Mandarin is a more pleasant challenge for his brain than speaking English is. Or that as much as he loves both London and New York, he’d follow Watson around the world. 

“Do you want me to braid your hair?”

It’s Watson’s turn to look surprised now. Connie loved braids in those days. Both in her own hair and putting them in Watson’s, and he’s had ample time to practice whenever Watson was too busy or not in the mood to look after Con’s hair. The silence worries him. Sometimes even after decades of knowing Watson he’s not sure if his offer is perceived as it’s intended. If...

“It’d fit the pictures.” Another proper Watson smile just for him. He remembers, of course. She wore a long, freely flowing white summer dress with a small stitched dark red flower pattern that day. Alongside about twenty small braids, and, later that day, a flower crown, because they went picking wild flowers after the trip to the café for a second breakfast around lunchtime. Anyone not eating as much bread as possible while in France has only themselves to blame.

His skills are rusty, after two decades of going to waste, but his fingers are trained to recall movements taught to them. It’s essential to their work.

“Are you going to make me a flower wreath, too?”

She sounds amused but he scoffs anyway.

“I haven’t seen any daisies.” 

According to Arthur’s and Connie’s theories daises are the main base for any reliable flower wreath. He finishes a seventh braid because he lacks Connie’s patience and enthusiasm. It wouldn’t look the same anyway, there are strands of silver interwoven with black these days. Makes her look wiser than is necessarily warranted. Watson, when she isn’t melancholy, can be a surprisingly playful elderly lady. Or maybe that’s just Watson finally freeing herself from the last chains of behaving according to society’s standards.

“They’ll think me insane,” Watson mutters, touching her braids. There’s the oddest mixture of anxiety and gladness in her tone. Then she rises to get dressed for their walk while he does the dishes. If she’s preparing their breakfast, the least he can do is wash a couple of plates, knives and cups. There’s enough time left to get dressed thereafter. Trousers, a fresh shirt and shoes are easily put on while Watson carefully applies sunscreen and takes three minutes just to place her hat. 

He wears a hat, too. They often do these days. Makes them look unjustly well adjusted to society if they do so with proper clothes. And minus any braids, except perhaps the occasional bun when Watson’s feeling particularly well-adjusted. Fashion’s a weird beast. 

Placing his hat takes roughly three seconds, perhaps ten. But of course Watson’s efforts ensured that she looks fantastic, and he has no such ambitions. Nor the lovely navy blue dress to go with a matching hat, both held by white-blue ribbons. Let alone sandals in the exact same shade of blue.

“Why are you studying my shoes?”

“I’m just grateful that you’re not wearing heels for our walk.”

She huffs at the suggestion, but adds their phones into a beach bag that already contains their singlesticks, valuables and money, alongside extra cloth bags, one for seashells, one for stones. He’ll take those on the way back. Bringing the parasol is overkill when they’ve got their singlesticks, but it’s one of their original accessories. Connie and Arthur had matching, slightly smaller ones, though theirs were modern replicas, not extraordinarily expensive Victorian originals. Taught him that it’s usually better to spend two to fifty dollars on the average present for Watson. Gift giving’s harder after you’ve officially pooled your finances.

“It _is_ nice,” she says and it’ll never entirely cease to worry him how easily she can read him on most days. Thankfully the moment passes as they step outside into the sun and she links their arms. It’s appropriate to a stroll by the beach. Holding hands is for walks in the park. 

“Where do you want to have lunch?” With the little café closed down, there are three more potential options, but none is quite as appealing or conveniently close.

“We just had breakfast,” she points out. 

But she knows that, with another case-free day ahead, he likes to plan so he’ll know the next step. And then the next after that. It’s a constant battle, trying to decide if it’s more important to have as many steps planned ahead as possible or if each surprise manages to help defeat the looming threat of boredom. It’s at times like that that it helps to remember being frightfully busy but without Watson beside him. Comparing those two... he realizes that she’s started to list pros and cons for each place and his attention’s wandered again. None of them are good options. None are like taking the children to a café with an owner who managed to talk directly to the kids despite the language barrier. He’d taught them a few words before the trip, of course. But please and thank you do not prepare you for a whole menu of potential goodies.

“Maybe we should have a picnic?”

He can _feel_ her glance.

“Why not?” Her voice is soft. So soft it almost isn’t Watson’s anymore. He comforts himself with the knowledge that Watson is a force of nature, and that a new storm will come and chase the calm away eventually.

Collecting stones and seashells has priority, of course. As does documentation of their finds and its finder. Taking selfies together still feels weird after all these years. But not offering ample picture proof of all their exploits to the children means receiving less or no pictures in return. So he tries to smile for the camera and tries hard to imagine that he’s looking at Watson instead. Focuses on the feel of her body pressed closely to his. And manages another smile that _almost_ conveys his affection for the woman beside him.

“We need more shells,” Watson says after a pleased little smile at the picture taken. He doesn’t contradict her even though they’ll likely leave most of them by the time they’re packing. Travelling slowly, via boat, allows for more luggage than their flights did. But they don’t really need more clutter. Less than ever with the potential move to a new place.

It takes maybe five seconds till their phones alert them to a new message. Then another. And another. 

“You posted it to the _main_ family chat?”

“It’s a good one.”

That doesn’t necessarily mean that everyone in their more extended family needs to see it. But it’s too late now and half of the New Yorkers seem to be online, despite the time difference. Constance is up as well, of course, and going particularly crazy with _how cute_ they are. Seems that only Watson’s siblings aren’t nocturnal for a change, and the London crowd might actually be busy during the day. Fair enough on a Wednesday, not everyone’s on holiday. 

Watson hands him his phone when he gets texts she doesn’t. Really, you’d think everyone has better things to do at three in the morning, but he patiently answers that yes, they are enjoying themselves. And yes he did braid Watson’s hair. And no, he hasn’t found the need to look into any cases for the local police yet. And yes he does miss them, too. Same message twice in one case. Thrice in another. Really, why not just continue the conversation in the main chat to save him the copying and pasting?

“Did you see the picture of Clyde Ms. Hudson posted? He’s got a new outfit.”

“I was busy staying on top of the message landslide you triggered.”

But it _is_ a cute outfit, if entirely unnecessary during the summer months.

“Seems our eldest is cared for excellently.”

“So is our youngest.”

Ah yes. A picture of Constance curled into Sam’s arms made it to the Brownstone chat. It takes almost an hour, settling every chat a single picture to the main started. And Watson looks delighted. She’s also still busy when he’s finally made it through each and every chat attempt that makes it sound as if three-five days of radio silence are too much for most of these people who, in some cases, have survived weeks to years of radio silence, once in a while.

When he’s about to hand back his phone to Watson so she can put it away, it turns out that Arthur and Archie took a late breakfast at the pub. Appalling working hours if they take breakfast that late in the day. But they look happy enough and they might’ve been busy all night reading up on specifics or following new leads. And as far as he’s heard they’re still taking good care of the one person in their family he actually hasn’t heard from in over a month. Kitty’s like that sometimes. He can relate.

“Archie says we should ditch our return tickets and come see them.”

He looks up because his phone doesn’t have that message.

“Do you want to go?”

Watson shrugs. She misses the children as much as he does. Maybe more. But seeing them in person makes it worse, being parted from them again. 

“Do _you_ want to?”

He shrugs, studying their collected stones and shells. Maybe Clyde would enjoy having some to play on? 

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll have to suspend my posting rhythm. I'm very likely to write more of these in the future, I love the characters. But I also want to write on other things and finally find time to read again. So again, thank you for being lovely. This fandom is one of my absolute favorites, not just for the canon but also for the pleasant people we've got.  



End file.
